


Paradise After Death

by Kayama



Series: Paradise After Death [1]
Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: Action/Adventure, Attempt at Humor, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 16:50:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 10,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1395091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kayama/pseuds/Kayama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was not what he expected at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted per request. Any similarities with other TV shows are coincidental. Not beta-read, all mistakes are mine. Mea Culpa.

“He has it all wrong, you know. He's going to lock up the wrong chap.” 

Detective sergeant Camille Borday prided herself with the known fact that she wasn't easily spooked. Nerves of steel, not easily scared or frighted, wouldn't fold under pressure and no nonsense incredible sharp mind. 

Right now, however? She was most definitely spooked. 

“Richard!” Wide brown eyes looked at the man standing before her, her hand moving to her chest to cover her heart. 

Detective Inspector Poole looked slightly guilty if not more than a little perplexed. Unlike everyone else on the island, or so it seemed, he wasn't in the possession of ninja like qualities, let alone abilities. Being able to sneak up on anyone wasn't one of his many talents. 

And yet he seemed to have managed it with his Sergeant. 

“Oh. Uhm, terribly sorry, Camille.” He gives her a contrite sheepish look before he resumes his usual pacing. “But I am quite right. The man couldn't have done it because,” a wave of his hand as he sets off into a rant about how the man they had arrested couldn't have done it and whom he, Richard Poole thought /had/ done it. 

Which should have been obvious if his team had simply followed the right clues and hadn't gotten off track by...distractions. Details! It was all in the details! Honestly, it was all in the details, he thought he had taught them at least that in the two years he'd been here now. 

Camille just stared at him open mouthed. “Richard...” She tried again, her tone of voice the sort she used while they were on a scene and she was soothing the victim or the survivors. 

Richard found it quite unnerving to be honest. Frowning, he takes a deep breath and crosses his arms in front of him and gives her /that/ look. “What?” he asks in his 'I'm holding back on sarcasm' voice. “What did I do this time?”

Camille pressed her hand to her mouth, reached out to him before quickly dropping her hand. “I-- Richard... You're.... You're dead.”

Oh. Well. He hadn't seen /that/ one coming.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was not what he expected at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta-read. All mistakes are mine, mea culpa.

This was not how he had planned it. Just going on like nothing was the matter, solve the case and then... And then... And then what? He needs better planning. 

He clears his throat and looks over at his... former? Co-worker. Gnawing his lip he paces in her living room, he wonders why their living room. Every other time she had dreamed him up they had been in /his/ shack for some reason or other. 

But that was the problem wasn't it? This wasn't a dream. This was... well... this was real. And she was looking at him like he was a ghost. Ah, technically he was, he supposed, but then he wasn't. 

Not really. 

Ugh! This was all so frustratingly complicated!

“Look, Camille,” he turns around to look at her. This was going be hard. Possibly the hardest thing he ever had to do. “I know,” he finally admits. 

As if he could forget that ice-pick landing in his chest. At least it had been quick, he'd tried to assure her of that every other time she'd met him in the.... that... Whatever that thing was between life and death. Or dream and waking. 

Voodoo nonsense. 

“So you're a....” Camille shakes her head, looking at him stunned. Her lips part a few times, but nothing comes out as she vaguely gestures with her hand. 

“A ghost?” he prods gently, that half-lopsided smile on his face. “I suppose you would think that, but no. No I'm not a ghost.”

In for a penny, in for a pound. 

“And neither are you,” he quickly rushes out. 

He should have expected that infamous eyeroll. He really should have. “I know that!” She shoots back, almost like old times, ready to start yet another argument. 

But this isn't old time and he's quite serious. Okay, he's always serious, but more serious now!

“I don't think you do, Camille,” he uses a voice she's never really heard him use. It makes her pay attention and she wonders why he never used it before. +

A frown furrows her brow as she looks at him and she suddenly feels cold. Bringing up her arms, she wraps them around herself, giving him a puzzled gaze. “What do you mean?”

Gently he makes her sit down on the sofa and settles next to her. Oh what he wouldn't give for a cup of tea right now. Or something stronger. Stronger than a beer even. He lifts his hand and points to the other room. 

Camille follows his pointed finger and blinks when she sees a casket, people milling about it. She sees her Maman crying, and Fidel. Even Dwayne. The Commissioner stands there trying to be stoic, some others. Even more confused she looks back toward Richard. “I don't understand.”

He's going to need more pennies and pounds, Richard thinks as he takes another deep, quite unneeded, breath. Silly reflex.

“You see, ah, I can talk to you and you can talk to me and we can see each other because, well, basically... that's with the whole veil thing, you know? I'm not one for this Voodoo or religious claptrap, you know that, but sometimes...”

“...Richard!”

“You died, Camille. You're uhm, dead. Too.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was not what he expected at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta-read. All mistakes are mine. Mea Culpa.

There is an odd sad look as he watches her. It hadn't been like this for him, as far as he recalls. But then he didn't have a strong emotional bond with anyone. It one of the many regrets he has, but he was whom he was. 

Camille tries to plead with her maman. Angry at first, then with flowing tears which make Richard uncomfortable. It's followed by scolding Dwayne, telling him the joke is over and to cut it out. Right now. She asks Fidel what's going on and even tries to get the Commissioners attention. 

It's all in vein. Richard Poole found that out by trail and error. And he hadn't had /anyone/ here to help him out or give him tips.

He sits up straight when Camille's shoulder slump and she shuffles back to the couch. With a sniffle she flops down and gives him such a look of devaluation he's momentarily taken aback. 

"Errr..." Awkwardly he pulls out his handkerchief, present and pristine even in death, and offers it to her. 

"Thank you," she murmurs in an unusual small voice, he accent thicker than normal. 

"You're Uhm, you're welcome," he offers shyly. His reaches his hand out, pulls it back, the reached out again to pat her shoulder stiffly. "There, there," he mumbles in what he hopes to be a comforting gesture. 

Camille looks up at him, tear drops clinging to her eyelashes, streaks of them flowing slowly down her cheeks. Her eyes are red and puffy while she takes shaking breaths. "What-- what happened?"

It doesn't take a genius to know what she means. Richard once again wishes he'd had someone there to explain things to /him/ when he'd woken up confused and yes, quite afraid. 

He'd had to resort to following his team and this new bumbling DI around to found out what had happened to him.

It had been the fake sister. On the patio. With an ice-pick. Trust Richard Poole to be murdered and making it seem like a bad Cluedo case. 

Not so with Camille. 

"You ah, you were shot. Whilst trying to rescue and protect a hostage in an escalating situation. It ah... it was quick?" he offers hopefully. "You didn't suffer or anything."

Unless you counted being stuck with her former chief in the afterlife, he supposes. But he's seem the whole thing happen. Her heroic effort to safe the young girl, the shot, Fidel and Dwayne arriving a split second to late. 

Her death. 

He's actually sat by her side and held her hand. The last thing he wanted for her was to die alone. Without any friends. 

The way he had died. 

Camille wipes her nose again, nods and hands him back the handkerchief. With a wrinkle of his nose he holds up his hands. "Keep it, really." 

Again the trembling smile as she tries to shred the cotton nervously between her fingers. She remembers bits and pieces. Fear, a sharp pain, cold so cold... a warm hand? A comforting presence nearby. 

"And the-- and the girl? Did she...?"

"What? Oh! Yes, yes, she's fine. Not even a scratch. I heard Commissioner Patterson is putting you up for another commendation," he tells her, some pride in his voice. "Posthumous of course." 

Of course. Dear god, sometimes his brain simply wasn't connected to his mouth and vice versa. But he never thought he's be so comforted by receiving the patented 'duh' look from Camille Borday. 

"Really?" she remarked sarcastically, looking at him with a shake of her head. It's then she notices that the scenery had changed. They were no longer at her mother's but back in Richard's old shack. Standing on the porch as they used to do after a long case. Usually they'd drink a beer and just talked a bit, getting Richard to open up.

Harry the lizard scampers by, pauses to look up at them both, and then goes to look for a warm place in the fading sun. 

With a sigh of breath she no longer has, she leans on the rail and gives her boss a sideways glance. "We're both dead."

A nod as he stands there, hands behind his back, still wearing his suit including jacket and tie. 

"And yet we're both still here." This time she raises her infamous brow at him.

He nods again, though there is a half shrug of his shoulder as he does his inaudible muttering of agreement. 

"Huh." Silence as she looks out over the ocean. "So. Now what?"

Richard pushes up on his toes and back again. "I thought you'd never ask!" He offers her his. 'aha' look. But it soon vanishes, replacing it for a sheepish on. "Honestly? I have no bloody idea."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was not what he expected at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta-read. All mistakes are mine. Mea Culpa.

They end up following Dwayne and Fidel around for a while. Richard tells her that's what he's been doing all along. This, Camille things, explains a lot of things suddenly. Clues that weren't there before, pointers that suddenly became clear when they were on a case....

“You're still solving crimes,” she observes, making him roll his eyes in a way that's more reminiscent of her. 

“You always were an astute observer,” he remarks dryly, at which points she shows him Camille Borday is still the mistress of eyerolls. 

Impressive at that. 

“I'm going to hit you if you keep that up. No, I mean... Maybe that's what we're supposed to do? It's not as if the retired DI's they keep sending to St. Marie are any help at all.”

Richard ponders this for a moment. Then makes it clear his train of thought, as always, isn't following hers by asking, “Can one ghost hit another?”

Camille eagerly tests this theory by hitting him the arm. Hard. Gleefully and with a glare. “Richard!”

He sulks at her, rubbing his arm. He should have known that it would, since he can /still/ feel the bloody heat! At least he wont have to worry about dying of a heatstroke anymore. Hah. 

“Alright! Alright! Let's just... refrain from getting physical, please.” He doesn't notice the look she gives him at that as he ponders her theory. “So you think we're still here to... what? Solve crimes?”

Camille shrugs. “Could be worse? I guess.” She doesn't know how much worse... No, that's a lie. She does know how much worse. It could really, really be worse. Like Hell worse. 

Richard takes a deep unneeded breath. Camille has a point, it could be worse. He's never really been a religious man. His experience with the nun's has him turning away from his parent's... faith. And he certain didn't think much of this voodoo nonsense. 

In fact, Richard Poole thought that when one died, there would be nothing. Boy, was he wrong. But, he thinks, he could have ended up in Hell. He knows he's not an easy man and he's done some things he's not proud of. He's only human after all. 

Hell, for him, probably would have ended up with him back in Croydon, with all his deceased colleagues, taunting, mocking and excluding him every chance they got. Things could definitely be worse than being stuck in Paradise after Death. 

The irony of it all doesn't escape him. 

“Right! Then we had better start on our very first crime. Because as I told you, the one they are arresting for your murder? Didn't do it.“ 

Camille's eyes go wide, lips parting a few times before she stammer uncharacteristically, “Okay.” 

A wince ripples over Richard's face as he once gain realized his foot in mouth habit. Just because he ran around solving his /own/ murder, doesn't mean everyone else does. Even though this was pretty clear, despite the fact that there were no witnesses.   
“I uh... Sorry. I didn't think....” He shrugs, pulling out his handkerchief, - and he marvels at the fact that no matter what, he can always pull a freshly folded, pristine handkerchief from his pocket – to dab his face. “It's the heat.”

Camille shrugs. “It's okay, I want to know what happened, because I can only vaguely remember that. So....” She pushes her fingers in the pockets of her jeans and looks at him hopeful. “Let's get to work?”

A firm nod as he reaches for his, even in death present attaché case. “Yes, let's get to work.” He shimmers out of sight, leaving a blinking and gaping Camille behind. 

“Richard!” How did he do that? Could she do that? Ugh! She had so much to learn... and the only teacher she had was... Her old... new? Boss. Richard Poole. 

Things... could be worse. A lot worse.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was not what he expected at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta-read, all mistakes are mine. Mea culpa.

"Don't look so smug!"

Richard Poole sends his sergeant a rather unconvincing 'who me' look. After several tries and bad explanations from him, she still can't seem to 'shimmer'. 

In the end they find they have the use of a Defender to get around. One similar to their old one which is now driven around mostly by Fidel. They wonder where it came from, who put it there, but once again remain sans answers. 

Because it would seem the replacement DI's can't really be arsed to get out to the actual crime scenes. They make it sound as if they have full confidence in their small team, but... "They're just bloody lazy. Couple of wanker sitting out their time until retirement. They're not even getting out of the station! Unless it's the beach or the damn pub!"

Richard wouldn't be Richard if he didn't have something to complain about, Camille can't help but think both fondly and exasperated. It's an odd combination, but it describes Richard Poole perfectly, as he's a complicated odd, /frustrating/ man. But she can't help but be fond of him. 

"... Just because it's a small island doesn't mean the murder is any less horrendous and worthy a proper investigation!" 

He was still going at it and, Camille knew, would be for some time. She takes this time to reflect on the last few days.   
They had caught her murdered quickly. She knows Richard made haste with it. Not just to bring her murdered to justice out of vengeance for her. But to get it over with as quickly as possible for /her/. 

It wasn't easy at all and he must have known that. Her boss may suck when it comes to showing support - though the flowers and opening up had been a pleasant surprise back when - but he helped how he could. 

In this case finding her murderer. Which wasn't, as the DI on the case thought, the man who held the hostages. It would be quite difficult to shoot someone in the heart from the front while standing behind them to restrain them.

Adding the fact that it was unlikely that Camille had /not/ put up a fight the chances of a shot like that would be pretty much nill.   
A third party had to be the culprit.

It was also during this investigation that Camille found out that Richard had been there the whole time since his own murder. Helping them out, leaving subtle clues for either of the team to find. 

It's how Fidel and Dwayne found her killer. The hostage takes accomplice who had been trying to kill him to shut the man up before he could squeal and rat him out. He'd hit Camille instead.

They'd solved her murder and it gave some closure. She was glad he'd been there. Even if it was with an awkward pat on the shoulder and giving her his ever present handkerchief. 

At least she hadn't been alone. Not when she died and not while solving her death. Unlike him. He's been alone for both, a fact that still makes her strangely sad. 

"Camille! Are you at all listening?" He gives her a raised brow look, his green eyes once again failing to hide his emotions. Frustration this time.

Richard Poole has the most expressive eyes. He could keep all emotions from his face, but not from his eyes.

"Of course I am," she assures him, leaning her chin on her hand while waving her hand in a 'go on' motion. "Who else would I listen to?"

His eyes narrow and she can tell from the glint in them that he's trying to figure out if she's being serious or not. "Hmpft."

She holds up her hands. "What? I was bein-- Oh! They're back!" Eager to have something to do she jumps up and heads over to Fidel's desk to look at the evidence collected by the boys on the last crime scene. 

Richard heroically does not pout at her quick get away - or so he thinks - and moves over to stand by the white board where said evidence ends up in an orderly fashion anyway. He tries to move with dignity and not seem too eager. 

After all, solving crimes is what they are good at. Even in death.

That and bickering with each other.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was not what he had expected at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta read, all mistakes are mine. Mea Culpa.

This had to be, Camille Borday, former sergeant of the St. Marie police, the most /polite/ haunting she had ever seen. 

Mind you she had not been witness to many haunting. Or any, if she was honest. But if rumour were to believed? Hauntings usually didn't go about so... English.

Of Richard had been the first to tell her that, technically, it was not a haunting. Ghosts or poltergeists did the haunting parts. They were not ghosts, therefore? Not a haunting.

This had been accompanied by a lot of hemming and hawing and nodding. Then followed by the announcement that Richard Poole had decided that since they could not figure out what they were? He would use the word 'apparition'

Camille couldn't find any reason to disagree, since her suggestion that maybe they were angels had been met by a good hour of laughter. And sarcasm. Naturally. 

It was until much later, when she stopped fuming and calling hum ugly names in French, that she realised it was the first time she'd heard Richard laugh. 

He had to die for her to hear him laugh. Worse. /She/ had to die before she could hear him laugh.   
It filled her with sadness. 

Then the 'technically not a haunting' had began. 

Standing on the veranda she had stood there and watched, wide eyed, as Richard went about his shack. Casually dropping books - with a wince as it were books - and other objects on the floor. Opened and closed the shutters with a bang. Turned on the taps, the tv, and things like that.

All accompanied with variants of "Pardon me", and "Terribly sorry," and "Excuse me." Or "It's not as if you're using this is it? Right!"

It was, Camille thought, an automatic Richard thing.   
"Now I know why all the retired DI's went to stay in the hotel instead of here," she told Harry, who had joined her, perched on the railing.

The lizard gave her a bug-eyed look before tilting it's tiny green head to look at St. Marie's former chief of police to go about his not haunting. 

"You know the first signs of insanity are talking to yourself or animals," Richard Poole told her as he emerged from the depths of his shack. 

In the background she could see the latest almost retired DI hastily packing his bags. The sight made her giggle almost as much as Richard not haunting the place. 

She had half expected him to say 'booh' at one point. But as no one alive seemed to be able to see them, that would have been pointless.

She knew that from the long, long, long, did she mention long? Lecture Richard had given her on the subject. 

"This coming from the man who /named/ the lizard?" she shot back, raising an eyebrow at him. 

"Naming animals is a perfectly accepted tradition. In the old--" he stared and she could tell he was building up to another lecture. 

She was about to hold up her hand to stop him, rolling her eyes with a scowl. But before she could utter his name in a warning fashion, the defender drove up to the shack. 

"That's odd, I thought he'd called a taxi," Richard murmured, obviously proud of his not haunting. He may not have admitted it while alive? But this was /his/ shack. He'd eventually called it home, tree, lizard, bad TV reception and all. 

"It's Fidel," Camille perked up, perhaps a little too hopeful. But ugh! Even with Richard around to annoy? The after life could be boring. And visiting her maman had proven to be a little too painful still.

"Sir?" Fidel's always polite voice called out to the latest DI. They hadn't called any of them Chief since Richard had died and DI Goodman had left. None of them earned the title according to him and Dwayne. 

Fidel's face adopted a look of confusion when the DI, balding, chubby and red faced, rushed out of the cabin, hauling his luggage along. 

"Whatever it is! It'll have to wait! Take me to a hotel first, I'm not staying in this hovel a second longer!"

Richard scoffed. "It's not a hovel," he grumbled, frowning at the elbow shoved in his side by Camille. 

"Shut up, I want to hear what's going on," she hissed at him, causing Richard to pull a face. 

"But-- there has been a murder, Sir!" Fidel tried, loading the luggage into the back of the defender.

"They're dead," the pigfaced DI sneered. "It's not like they're going anywhere. I'm getting a room first, then we can go to the crime scene."

"Where is it?!" Richard almost yelled frustrated. Christ! This not being seen or heard thing was annoying!

"Where is it?" The pigfaced DI echoed the question as he got into the jeep, making Camille and Richard share a look. 

"It's at the Crazy Crab bar, sir," Fidel tells him as he starts the jeep to drive to the hotel.

"Highly unprofessional," Richard observes as they watch them drive off. 

"Yeah," Camille agrees, watching the defender vanish with a frown. 

They share another look before he calls "Shotgun!" and rushes to their own Jeep.

"What are you calling shotgun for?" she scolds him, following at a slower pace. "It's you and me here and /I'm/ usually the one driving!"

Closing the door he, bizarrely, buckles up. She asked him about that once, as it's not like they'd die or possibly get into an accident. "Just because we're apparitions, doesn't mean we suddenly have to revolt against the law. Why it would be anarchy!" he'd told her. 

She never asked again. Sheesh. 

Richard peers at her from the open window. "And yet you seem to do very little driving at the moment, Camille. Hut, hut! Time is ticking!" 

Letting out a frustrated sound she climbs behind the wheel. Time stopped ticking for them, but they still danced to the tick-tocking of the living it would seem. 

"Okay, okay. We're going, hold your ducks," she grumbles.

"Horses," he corrects her automatically as they drive to the Crazy Crab pub. 

Finally, something to do other then not haunt and come up with new and creative insults.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was not what he expected at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta-read. All mistakes are mine. Mea Culpa.

“Richard!”

He all but jumps and gives her a guilty look. “But it /is/ a stupid name. Who in their right mind would call their establishment 'the crazy crab?'. What sort of expectations and image does that create?”

From the look on Camille's face, rain-cloud with a high possibility of thunder, he had been going on about said name for quite a while now. “A place where you can have fun. Something you are don't know much about, clearly,” she shoots back irritated.

Upon arrival they found Fidel and Dwayne already doing this job. The cook and owner of the Crazy Crab was found in the kitchen, stabbed to death with his own knives. All of them. Not just one of them. No all of them.

She watches as Fidel takes pictures of the gruesome scene while Dwayne carefully bags all the knives. The first looks up as the menu flutters open, but then continues to do his job. No doubt dismissing it as the wind.

Camille had done it herself more often than not, she only just now realized it had been Richard puttering about the scone. “What are you doing?”

When he raises an eyebrow at her, she knows there's sarcasm to follow. She's not disappointed.

“Detecting,” he utters dryly, closing the menu. “Why would you call a restaurant, or pub or whatever this establishment is 'The Crazy Crab',” he holds up his hand to ward off the protest he can see Camille gearing up to make. “And then not serve /any/ dishes with crab? I mean... isn't that strange?”

Camille lets out a long suffering sigh. She may no longer need to breathe, but it makes her feel better. “Maybe the cook and owner is allergic... was allergic to crab.”

Richard makes a face as he crouches down near the victim. “Then why call it the Crazy Crab?” He tilts his head and narrows his green eyes. “This certainly is overkill. Someone was very, very angry with this man.”

Snorting, Camille shakes her head. “You think? The question is why.”

Rising to his feet, Richard remarks, “Quite possibly someone who had been lured by the false advertising and got crabby without the crab.”

His chuckle at his own joke is short lived with one look from Camille. She doesn't say a word this time, merely snaps her fingers and points at the scene.

“Alright, alright, no need for you to get crabby.”

“Richard!”

He quickly holds up his hands in defeat and circles the kitchen to look for any clues. The paramedics come in to remove the body and as they turn it around, Richard frowns. “Hang on, wait a moment.”

One of the drawbacks of being dead is that the living, more often than not, /cannot/ hear you. So there was no hanging on or waiting a moment. Camille quickly steps in, pushing a pot of now cold water from the stove. Everyone but Richard jumps and turns to look at it, some even walk over to clean up the mess.

“Thank you,” Richard crouches down again and points at the man's chest. “Look, these knives weren't used at random. There's a pattern of the wounds. Almost like... a drawing of sorts. We need to get Fidel to take pictures of this.”

Camille nods and then shrugs as she walks – and for some reason it still feels a little bit like floating – over to her former co-worker. She noticed that if she whispers at people, she can give them suggestion. She's not clear if they hear her or not, of it they just.. get an idea.

It work. And Richard doesn't seem to be able to do it. He's tried. And pouted. And sulked when he couldn't do it. To which Camille reminded him that he could shimmer and she couldn't. Even in death they had their own set of skills and talents it would seem.

Fidel's concentrated face clears up and Camille can claim victory when he steps over to the body and takes pictures of the chest. “Look at this, Dwayne,” he points them out to his co-worker, and Camille smiles at the proud look on Richard's face.

“Right! Pictures taken evidence collected. Let's head back to the station!” Richard rubs his hand.... and shimmers out of sight.

“Rich... Ugh! Je déteste quand il fait ça!” Letting out a frustrated growl, Camille Borday stomps out of the Crazy Crab and climbs into the jeep to drive back to the station and get to work.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was not what he expected at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta-read. All mistakes are mine. Mea Culpa.

When Camille Borday stomps into the station, she comes to a stuttering halt when she finds her boss – Former? Now boss again? Very complicated! - writing down some clues on the whiteboard. 

“You can't do that! What if they figure things out? Or.... something!” She scolds him, animatedly waving her hands about for emphasis. Though she's not quite sure /what/ she is emphasizing. 

He merely looks at her with a raised eyebrow. “And why not? I've been doing it all along. Neither of you ever noticed,” with a huff he turns back to the board and writes down the last clues. 

She gapes at him and then looks at the rest of team. Former team? Still team? This really was complicated! Fidel was too concentrated on uploading, clearing and printing out the crime scene photos. Dwayne just wandered out of the kitchen with a mug of fresh coffee. 

He was right. Neither of them would actually think twice about the clues appearing on the whiteboard. While she was still alive she always assumed Fidel or Dwayne had written it down. It would have never occurred to her that it was Richard. 

“There,” with a flourish Richard writes down the last clue and puts down the marker. /His/ marker still. Just as he turns around, DI Pigface – and they both seem to be stubbornly stuck with that name for the man – comes shuffling into the station. 

Out of breath, wearing a shirt most tourists wouldn't even been caught dead in – no pun intended – flip-flops and shorts that were way too tight. He throws himself into the nearest chair and lets out a dramatic sigh. “I got me a room, I'm not going back to the hut! So, what we got then?”

Dwayne rolls his eyes at the man's lack of interest or enthusiasm. Fidel quickly summons up what they have gathered and their theories so far. With a slow nod DI Pigface rises from his chair, walks to the door to head back outside again. “Great, good, splendid. Keep up the good work uh.... uh.... you two. Keep me informed if there's any dramatic change.”

And with that the man shuffles out the door, no doubt on his way to the beach to laze about until his retirement. 

“He doesn't even know their names!” Camille fumes

Richard, having observed the whole scene – and a few times with DI Pigface's predecessors - makes a face. “At least I knew your names from the start. Well, Fidel and Dwayne's that is. Yours not so much as you found it necessary to dupe me.” 

In an echo of Dwayne, she rolls her eyes. “I was undercover,” she sighs, stretching out the word 'undercover', making it clear this isn't the first time this apparently has come up. 

“Right, right, so you keep reminding me. Well! As it's clear DI....” he waves a hand toward the door, realizing he doesn't know the man's name. Nor does he care, not really. If the DI Pigface cannot be bothered with names, then neither can he in his case. 

“Wont lift a finger to help solve this. It'll be up to us! As usual, that much hasn't changed,” Richard muses a he walks to the whiteboard. Rubbing his chin, green eyes narrow as they take in the evidence Fidel is sticking on there one by one. 

“I still have to wonder why a place called The Crazy Crab doesn't serve any crab,” comes the mutter from the former Chief of the St. Marie police force. 

“Ugh, is this going to be like the tea?” Camille grouses, giving him a narrowed eyed look. 

“Tea? What tea? Aside from the cup I really could use about now,” Poole asks. 

“The one where you kept going on and on and on about the super expensive tea. From the woman at the plastic surgery spa,” she explains, leaning against the desk as she lets her eyes go over the details from the case. “And if it's not tea, it's shoes. You always have some weird case obsession, Richard. Is it crabs this time?”

He scoffs, crossing his arms as he heroically does /not/ sulk. Or at least not much. “It's not an obsession, Camille, its an eye for detail. /And/ I was right in all those cases wasn't I?” He looks at her with a very clear look of 'aha!' triumph. 

This time it's Camille's turn to make a face as she glances at the ground and murmurs something. 

“What was that, sergeant? I didn't quite catch that.”

More grumbling this time accompanied by one of the Camille Borday patent pending glares. 

“Beg pardon? You really need to speak up, Camille, you usually have no problem with that.”

“I said you were right, okay? Happy now? Fantastique! Great, let's move on...”

“Hang on, hang on, not so fast. I don't often hear that I'm right from the lips of one Camille Boray. I think this calls for a bloody celebration! I'm tempted to call in the fanfare, but I don't think they have one here on St. Marie.” Aside from the fact that dead people probably pretty much couldn't call in /anything/. 

The Borday glare is turned up a notch as she all but stomps her foot. “You are so funny, Richard,” she grumbles with a sarcasm to rival his. “Can we get to the crime now? We have a murder to investigate.”

Richard, still very obviously gloating nods but moves to the kitchen instead. 

“Where are you going?”

“I wasn't kidding about that celebration!” he calls from the kitchen and moments later, had anyone been paying attention, a mug of tea comes floating toward the whiteboard. “Right, let's get to work. After all, we're all Fidel and Dwayne have to help them solve this.”

Camile blinks at the floating mug, then tentatively glances at her former co-workers and marvels at the fact that no one seems to notice anything off. Wow. But she hadn't ever noticed anything as well. 

Either Richard was very, very good at the sneak ghosting... For a /not/ ghost. Or they just never really wanted to see or know what was going on around them Not where that was concerned. 

Either way, they had a case to solve. After all, murders didn't usually solve themselves.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was not what he expected at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta read, all mistakes are mine. Mea Culpa.

“Why do you keep doing this to yourself?” 

Comes the question, breaking a silence which had previously only been occupied by crashing waves and the wind. 

He'd stood there for a good half hour, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to form the question, find the words to console her. The impression of 'deranged fish on dry land' he pulled off, was better then his attempted at comforting her.   
At first he pretended he didn't notice her sneaking off every time. But with just the two of them, really, roaming about between the living world and the... whatever they were. Other than dead. It was hard /not/ to notice. 

So he'd followed her one day and found her at La Caz, watching her Mother. Cathrine was surging on, strong woman that she was, but there was this permanent sadness to her now. Even Richard Poole, usually the most unobservant when it came to social things, noticed that. 

It made him, briefly, wonder if his parents back in England had this shadow, this cloak of sadness about them as well. But then he dismissed it as 'probably not'. He did not doubt that they grieved for him, but they were English. And, just like him, they didn't do too well where emotions were involved. 

Unlike the Borday's, who wore their emotions on their proverbial sleeve. Hell, just about the whole island did that. It was one of the things Richard had such trouble with when it came to living here. Everyone was so emotional and they all but expected the same from him! 

Ridiculous. 

But for several days now he'd been watching Camille who was watching her Mother trying to cope. Dwayne would come by to talk to her, being Dwayne-ly comforting. Fidel would come by, being a little more awkwardly comforting. Even the commissioner would come by every now and then, with his silent, strong comforting presence. 

At least Catherine wasn't alone, Richard thought, but that didn't seem to help Camile, though. Who always ended up sitting on her favourite beach after watching her mum, staring out over the ocean as the sun dipped into it.   
It's where he found her again today, while doing his best impression of the deranged fish. No doubt a boring kipper from England, but still a deranged fish. 

Camille, to her credit, didn't startle. But she quickly runs her arm along her eyes as if he doesn't know she's been crying. She clears her throat and glances briefly at him over her shoulder before letting out a sigh. 

After some hesitation he pads over to her, through the sand, hero that he is. He takes of his jacket and spread it out on the beach before sitting down next to her. Words still don't seem to come magically to mind in way of comforting her, but at least he can be there. 

The gesture makes a watery smile appear on her face. “Even when you're dead, you still hate sand.” She would point out the irony of him being under no doubt quite a lot of sand right now. Or his body. 

But that would be morbid. And it makes her think of her own... death. And now the tears are coming again. Damnit! Camille lets out a few choice curse-words in French while she suddenly finds a familiar oh so pristine handkerchief in front of her.   
“Thank you,” she murmurs, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose. “I don't know,” she finally replies to his question from earlier. “I just... Need to see her. You know?”

He doesn't really know, but he doesn't doubt her. Glancing at her he offers a small smile, holding up his hand when she offers the handkerchief back. “I have a feeling you need I more than I do.”

Richard likens her to a ticking time-bomb who's about to explode. All he has to do is sit there, listen and wait. He may not be the type to hug and have the exact right words of comfort or be strong presence? But he can sit there, listen and be there for her. 

The wait isn't long. It starts with her telling stories about her Maman and how she took care of her when Camille was little. What a trouble-making teen she had been. Camille even manages a small laugh when he dryly points out that this doesn't come as shocking surprise to him. 

Soon he notices that laughter turning into sniffling followed by not so quiet sobs. That's when he panics for a moment, making him look around for someone who can help him. Of course there is no one, even if they weren't between worlds there wouldn't be on this deserted beach. 

But when Camille turns and presses her face against his shoulder, his panic flares up for just a moment before he suddenly feels calm. 

Maybe he's found that magic after all. But it aren't those words he always relays on so much. Instead his arms come up and around her, holding her while she finally cries. 

There are no words needed, just his presence. And Richard Poole finds himself baffled that this seems to be all the comfort Camille needs right now. Just him, keeping quiet, listening, and holding her. Even if it's awkwardly. 

The Crazy Crab murder can wait. This? This is more important. /She/ is more important right now.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was not what he expected at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta read. All mistakes are mine. Mea culpa.

“It's just a ridiculous thing to do. Why would you call your restaurant 'The Crazy Crab' when you're allergic to crab? Makes no sense!”

From the look on Camille Bordey's face it wasn't the first time Richard Poole mentioned that. Nor the second and probably not even the third. 

“So you've been telling us....” She pauses when she realises there is no 'us' anymore. Well, not so much in the way of the team. Where she could always push Fidel or Dwayne forward to listen to Richard Poole's odd and often, at the time, irrelevant rantings. 

Mostly those rantings turned out to be very relevant later on at the case, but right now? She wished she could put Fidel or Dwayne on the 'listening to the 'crazy crab naming' rant. 

“Maybe he was eccentric,” she sighs, shrugging her shoulders as they look at the white-board with new clues. 

“Pffft,” the former Chief of the St. Marie scoffs, “Eccentric people are just strange. They just call themselves eccentric so they can act out and, often times, be quite childish about it.” 

Camille gives him a sideway glance, the corners of her lips quirking upwards as she oh so innocently remarks. “Like... people who wear suits and ties in the tropical heat of the Caribbean? That sort of eccentric people?” She nods sagely. “I see what you mean.”

The look he aims at her is nothing short of a scowl and most definitely a glare. “Can we focus here, Camille? We have a job to do!”

She doesn't even hide her laughter as he holds up her hands. “Okay, okay. So, he's allergic to crab. So much that he didn't even serve it at his place.”

He nods, crossing his arms and pursing his lips. “So the murder wasn't premeditated. There is nothing easier than slipping some form of crab into the food while working in a restaurant. “ he taps at the white-board with his marker. 

“And then there is strange pattern of the stab-wounds on the chest. Anything about that?” Automatically he still finds himself turning to Fidel, who of course cannot hear him. “Right... Uhm...” 

As both Fidel and Dwayne are busy bouncing off idea's from each other, they seem distracted enough. Making use of the breeze fluttering through the station, Camille casually flips through the file. “Nothing yet, Sir. No one seems to know what they mean.” 

Poole crouches down and narrows his green eyes at the photo's of the victim's chest. The stab-wounds are all in a distinct patter. He tilts his head to the side, then even more and then reaches out to turn the photo upside down. “Morse code. Look. That is why they used different knives. A larger and smaller ones.” 

Camille crouches down next to him and blinks. “It's upside down, so the killer was behind him when they stabbed him?” She frowns and shakes her head. “No one can stab that accurate without seeing their work.”

Richard points at a stab wound that seems more ragged than the others. Two, in fact. “I think these were what killed him. The others were left to convey a message.” 

He looks at the photo's again to look where the knife block was located. “The knives were behind the cook. So the killer grabbed the knives, knelt down by the head and then stabbed the morse code in it. How is your morse code, Camille? Mine's very rusty and I only see a E and an R.” 

Camille gives him a sheepish look. “I only know SOS, Sir. We can probably find something on the Internet.”

Richard holds up a hand. “Dwayne being the exuberant fisher that he is, and not just of the female persuasion but the actual scale sort, would know morse code, wouldn't he?”

Camille shrugs and then concedes to that. “Probably, yeah. Why?”

“Well, we can't do all the work,” he points out, wondering how to nudge Dwayne, or if needed, Fidel to the morse code on the victims chest. “If they figure out what it says, we're all a step forward.”

Eyes narrowing thoughtfully, Camille looks from the photo's of the man's chest to Dwayne's desk. When the man gets up to walk to the balcony, leaning on the rail, she steps over to his desk. With a few clicks she finds a site on morse code. Printing out the photo, she puts it on the keyboard. 

“Subtle,” Richard remarks dryly. “You know, they're going to be onto us sooner or later if we keep this up.”

Camille gives him a wry smile, not voicing the fact that maybe, just maybe... that's what she wants. But for now, all they an do is wait and see if Dwayne takes the bait and figures out what the morse code wounds say. 

Meanwhile she joins Richard as he stares at the white-board in the hopes to find more clues.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was not what he expected at all. (Dwayne's POV mostly this time)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta read, all mistakes are mine. Mea Culpa. English is not my first language.

Dwayne Myers wasn't, by any real means, a religious man. He'd grown up between the voodoo on one side and the catholics on the other. Between the two of them he'd heard, experienced and seen his fair share of things that... didn't quite add up. 

And thinking about that always made /him/ think about one DI Richard Poole. He can almost hear the man's voice complaining. “Good god, what voodoo goddess lunar circle are we celebrating this time?” The man would grouse and then pull that particular 'Psah, voodoo' face. 

Dwayne freely admits that he misses the man. Richard Poole might have been pedantic, oblivious, complained a /lot/. From the sand everywhere, to the heat, to the lack of forensics and everything in between. But he gave credit where credit was due, made the most use of his team and... He did have a sense of humour. 

He didn't know how used he'd gotten to hearing the British accented complaints about heat, rain, food that eyed you while you tried to eat it... Until it was gone. And in such a... ridiculous way too. The man deserved better. 

Even more so pained him the loss of Camille, and Dwayne freely admitted that too. She had been like a little sister to him. Always looking out for her even when she didn't need looking out. He misses her sharp intellect, her with, her bickering with the Chief. Just sitting and relaxing after work, drinking a beer, talkling about everything and nothing. 

Even the chief had joined in after a while. Long while, but still. And of course he drank tea. Unless they were at his shack, then it was beer. 

A smile touches his lips as he thinks about those two. The bickering, always arguing, but also always admiring each other. The smile turns a little sad when he thinks of what could have been, might have been. Should have been. If only the Chief hadn't been so oblivious. If only Camille had just come right out and said it. If only they hadn't been taken way from them so early. If only....

If only...

But 'if only's' do not get them anywhere. And neither do any of the DI's that have been send over to 'help them out' after Goodman had left. The last one sure took the cake. The man just sat at his desk, if he even did that. And issued out orders, if he even did that. The man probably had no idea how their cases were going. 

Dwayne doesn't quite understand how the Commissioner stood for it. Maybe he's hoping to find crack-team like DI Richard Poole and DS Camille Borday again. But the chances of that? Dwayne wouldn't put a bet on it. 

But... back to the Voodoo and the religion and having heard, seen, experienced... maybe, things that aren't easily explained. 

He can't quite put his finger on it, but he has this strange feeling lately. Like an itch he can't reach. A tingling in the pit of his stomach. Not just at the station, but at crime scenes too. Sometimes even at La Caz. Or when he goes to the shack to check up on things now that no one is living there. And yeah, look in on Harry. 

Something is... off, but he doesn't know what. Maybe he'll ask Fidel about it once this case is over. Or maybe he's just tired and imagining things. He'd been out partying a lot lately, what with the Erzulie Festival around again. Yeah, he decides, that's it. He's tired. Imagining things. 

Having decided that, he thus doesn't notice two entities all but jumping up when he announces, “I got it!” with a triumphant point at the screen of his old computer. 

Printing out his findings, he rips it from the printer and lays it on Fidel's desk, tapping a finger on it. “It says 'Gula'. And of course I looked it up on google translate,” he adds proudly. “It's Latin--” 

“Gluttony?” Richard Poole voices over Dwayne's words, though this goes unheard by either Dwayne or Fidel who continue their conversation. 

Camille looks at him and then at tilts her head to look over Dwayne's shoulder at the picture of the knife wounds. “One of the seven sins?” Her eyes narrow as her head shoots up to look over at the Chief. “Does that mean there are going to be six more murders?”

Poole winces, hovering by the board, itching to write down the clue. “God, I hope not,” he utters, letting out a relieved, if unnecessary breath, when Fidel writes the clue down on the board. It's followed by the other six, making him look on proudly. “Good man, Fidel.”

“But the chances are there might be,” Camille suggests, looking over at DI Pigface who she's sure hasn't even moved to come look at their findings. He should just go to the beach, it annoys her to see him sitting there, cul paresseux, ugh. 

“There might be, or there may already have been,” he looks over to her and points at the files of the old cases Fidel had dug up from the last weeks. Not just here from from the neighboring islands of St. Marie as well. “It looks like we have some work to do when they've all gone home.” 

Camille wrinkles her nose. “Hourra,” she states dryly, leaning against the desk to look over the clues. While not sounding too enthusiastic she's glad they finally might get further in the case. 

And later when Fidel and Dwayne have gone, Pigface having left the building long before them, she and Richard comb through each and every file in the hope to find some clue and help their team – dead they may be, it's still /their/ team - out.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't what he expected at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta-read, all mistakes are mine. English is not my first language. Mea Culpa.

As it turns out to be, and isn't that just always the case, there /had/ been more murders that seem similar to the one of the Crazy Crab's cook. Not by means of method or motive, if they had gone merely on that, Fidel would never have found the connection. 

No, they all had a word morse coded on their body. The body of a rich heiress which had been found strangled in bed, had the Latin word for 'Avaritia' burned into her back with cigarettes'. It didn't take him long to figure out it meant 'Greed'. The woman never worked a day in her life, didn't believe in sharing or charity. All she did was live of her parent's money and demanded to be weighted on hand and foot, twenty four hours a day. 

Another was a young, arrogant actor, a rising star, who had been killed in a car accident. And because it was rendered an accident, no one really took any notice to the, seemingly random, carvings on his chest. They all thought it were wounds from the splintered glass from the carwindows. The other car involving the crash had never been found, the whole case was somewhat shrouded in mystery. But upon a closer inspection, Fidel had taken a thorough look at the 'wounds' on the man's chest. 

They spelled out the word 'Indivia' now known as 'Pride', also known for arrogance, the literature told him. If he hadn't accidentally laid that magnifying glass on that picture he probably would have never seen it. He was rather proud of his discoveries, even if the current DI didn't seem to care much. At least the Commissioner was giving them some guidance. 

But the luck with the magnifying glass got him thinking again. There had been a lot of 'accidental' discoveries as of late. An open webpage here, a bottle of water spilling over a bag of evidence he then took a closer look at there, him accidentally grabbing the red marker instead of the black to write down a clue which then turned out to be the key to the case....

...It was.... strange. But he'd been working hard and between Juliette and Rosie having the flu forcing him to be up nearly all night with his baby girl... Yeah, he was just exhausted. Seeing things. He tried to bring it up to Dwayne a few times, but didn't want to sound like an idiot. 

Though he had the distinct impression that Dwayne wanted to talk about something with him as well, but the man always changed the subject just at the last moment, or opened his mouth and then closed it again as if he changed his mind. 

Maybe they should have a talk. But after they solved this case, as it would seem they had a serial killer on the loose. Which, baffling, still didn't seem to impress DI Pigface. 

“That man is not worthy of the title of Detective Inspector, or indeed police officer,” Richard Poole ranted as Fidel turned back to read over this requested case files. “I have seen a few inept individuals arrive here, but that one takes the cake.” 

Camille looks over to the chubby man, lazily strolling along the stalls of market, happily tasting some samples offered as he made his way over to the beach he sat around on every day. And if it wasn't the beach, as far as she knew, he went to just about every pub on the island or casino or other 'fun' places. “He's not here to work, he's here to vacation.” With a shake of her heads she turns her back to the man and looks over to Richard. 

Who was currently pacing along the veranda just outside of the Station. Every once and a while he dabs his face with the always pristine hanky, muttering about why, for godsake, did it still have to be so hot when he was bloody dead. His leather shoes thud lightly on the wood, making Camille glance inside to see if either Fidel or Dwayne hears him walk. 

They never had before, but lately she's noticed them either look up confused and then dismiss the matter before going back to work. Or, and that had been recent, minutely glance from the corner of their eyes toward the porch. Then they'd frown, shake their heads and go back to work. 

“It think they might suspect,” she points out, leaning with her back against the rail, elbow resting on it as she watches him pace. 

Richard pauses his pacing and looks over at her, then he leans forward to glance into the station. “You think so?” he questions, still a little surprised to see Dwayne hard at work. Not that the man didn't know how to work hard, but he always had time to slack off... if it was possible. It was part of who Dwayne Myers /was/. Apparently with all of the work falling on Fidel and Dwayne's shoulders it wasn't at all possible. 

“Well, I mean, they're both quite clever each in their own way. One would assume they'd figure it out eventually,” Richard shrugs, moving to sit down on the bench in the shade. 

Camille snorts. “Right, if that were you in there, your eventual conclusion would have been that there's two ghosts around helping out on cases?” She raises a challenging eyebrow, daring him to deny it. 

“Uhm, well. No. But to my defense, before I was very brutally, and needlessly I must say, murdered? I didn't believe in such claptrap. Ghosts and voodoo nonsense. I still don't believe half of it!” He protests as she parts her lips for a, no doubt, smug reply. 

“But Dwayne at the very least is more aware of the ah....” he waves a hand around, looking for an appropriate word. “Wonders of the world and life and... uhm, after life.”

Camille shrugs, Richard had a point there. There was a difference, no doubt, between growing up in no nonsense England and the more superstitious Caribbean. “But what are we going to do when they figure it out?” She asks, biting her lips nervously. To be honest, she still wavers between wanting them to know and keeping it hidden. 

Richard shrugs and takes a needless – curious reflex – breath to answer her. But before he can a grim faced Fidel's voice comes from inside where he stands near Dwayne's desk. “Get the stuff together, there's been another murder.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was not what he expected at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta-read, all mistakes are mine. English is not my native tongue. Mea Culpa.

“Who would have thought,” Richard Poole states dryly as he crouches down near the corpse of the murder victim. A rather brutal murder from the looks of it. “That working for the St. Marie police would be so deadly, hmmm?”

He looks up at Camille Borday who gazes down at tied up and now quite dead body of DI Pigface. Or, as his actual name turned out to be, “Rudolph Red?” Camille reads over the shoulder of Fidel who's gone through the man's pockets to see if anything is missing. 

“Rudolph Red? Really? What sort of cruel parents did that man have?” Richard shakes his head as he gets up and strolls around the rather luxurious hotel apartment. “How did he afford this on a police Chief salary? I don't understand, I couldn't even afford a small air-conditioning in my shack!”

As the former chief of the Honoré police slowly makes his rounds through the room and peers onto the adjacent balcony, Fidel and Dwayne carefully comb through every inch of the apartment. They talk quietly to themselves, Camille only listening with half an ear. She's studying the man's body, looking for something specific. 

“Richard, come look. There it is,” she point at one of the man's bare arms. Massive arms, she might add. “If you stand away a distance, there's a pattern of bruises. See?” She leans back and points as Fidel stretches the man's limbs out to take photo's of the various wounds. 

Former DI Pigface, aka Rudolph Red was found by the maid. Laying on the ground in a pool of blood which was soaking into the carpet, only wearing a pair of boxers, disturbingly adorned by various animals. Who, upon closer inspection, are doing thing they should not be doing on a pair of boxers, Richard had decided after a firm 'Good god!'. Or indeed any piece of clothing, he added firmly. 

Following is sergeants suggestions he steps back and stares at the outstretched arm. Where one would usually expect to find the marks of fingers, having bruised the arms by holding the victim down, are in fact dots. Which can only have been deliberately placed there by pressing one finger viciously into the man's arm to create the pattern. 

“What does it say?” Asks Camille, tilting her head as Richard does to study the colorful bruises. He mutters under his none breath, correcting himself a few times as he tries to decipher the morse code. By now they read up on it so much he's able to recognize a few letters. 

“An A at the beginning and one at the end. A C and that's an E. So Ace something A,” he murmurs, tapping a finger against his chin. 

“Acedia, “ Camille murmurs, looking up at him. “Sloth. That's... Yeah, I guess that's fitting for him,” she winces at that, not sure if she should feel guilty for thinking that it /does/ fit. The man was dead after all and he was a co-worker, even if posthumous. 

Richard raises an eyebrow and shakes his head. “That means whomever is doing this? Is escalating.”

This time it's Camille who raises an eyebrow. “Why do you think that?”

Resuming his round of the hotel-room, he pauses and shudders when one of the ambulance personal steps /through/ him on his way to the corpse. “I hate it when that happens,” he growls, skirting out of the way of the rest of the people. 

“Because,” he continues, standing to the side to watch the proceedings. “They have been killing by some pattern. I'm not sure if it's some moon or sun or star constellation or some special day in some religion, but it's always been six months apart. That's probably why no one noticed the pattern.” 

Camille narrows her eyes, mentally going over the files she's been reading over Fidel's shoulder. “And the Cook was murdered a week ago. So the next victim wouldn't have been until six months from now. So what made him or her kill so soon?”

Moving out onto the balcony, Richard looks around there for any clues, his keen eyes not missing any details. “Him. I think it's a him. You need strength to leave precise bruises like those. Unless we're dealing with a particular strong woman, which is a possibility, I suppose. Maybe the corner can tell us more from the shape and form etcetera of the bruises.”

Camille nods, stepping out of the way of the medics as they carry the late DI Pigface aka Rudolph Red out of the room. “Maybe it was just too good an opportunity to resist?”

As he steps back into the room, Richard gives her a puzzled look. “How do you mean?”

“Well,” she gives him a one shouldered shrug, “/We/ can't have been the only ones annoyed by the man's lazy comportement that...” 

“English please,” he interrupts her, making her hide a grin. 

“/Attitude/” she gives him a look before continuing. “It must have been noticeable by others. I mean, if I were a serial killer, I'd be keeping my eyes on the police, oui?”

That earns her another look. “/Yes/, that sounds logical. But then again, this sort of people aren't know for their logical thinking. Still, it makes sense that's how they noticed the man who's supposedly in charge... didn't show any interest.”

Camille frowns. “But that would make most criminals happy, wouldn't it?”

Pointing at her, Richard makes an aha sound. “Unless they are the narcissist sort. The ones who take pride in their murders. They are known to build shrines of them, collect paper clippings, that sort of thing. Unlike this one, the other murders seem to have been given far more thought. For that he would have had to be observing his victims for a while.”

Camille nods. “So all we gotta do is find out who's been asking about them, been seen around more and most people wouldn't know!” Enthusiastically she starts toward the door. 

“Uh, Camille, where are you going?” Richard looks at her perplexed. “Are we going back to the precinct?”

“No,” she shakes her head, making a motion with her hands which is the equivalent of 'duh'. “To talk to the people who knew the other vicit.... “ Her face falls when realization hits. “Oh.”

Giving her a sympathetic look, Richard lets out a unneeded sigh. “Oh indeed. We have a different problem, though.”  
Camille furrows her brow and looks at her boss puzzled. “What's that?”

Richard points at where the victim was moments ago. “Where does all that blood come from It's soaking the carpet, yet there wasn't a open wound on him. At least not one which bled so profusely.” 

Camille opens her mouth, closes it again and then blinks. “Merde.”


End file.
